


Long Live the King

by The_Girl_Almighty



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Canon, Consensual Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, First Time, Gay Sex, Husbands, Insecurities, M/M, Make up sex, Met Gala, Minor Rimming, They make up no one panic, argument, larry stylinson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 21:16:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19181530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Girl_Almighty/pseuds/The_Girl_Almighty
Summary: Harry Styles is named King of Camp after attending the 2019 MET Gala as the youngest Co-Chair in it's history, but his insecurities about himself begin to surface and drive a wedge between himself and Louis. Will this King lose his crown?





	Long Live the King

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Gang!
> 
> I know, I know the MET Gala was over a month ago. But life happens and we finally got here so just shhh and read it. No I'm not sorry. Yes I'm that bitch. Y'all are welcome.
> 
> Big big big big big thank you as always goes to my soulmate, best friend, cheerleader and editor Lena. Couldn't have done this without you, so thank you.
> 
> Also to all my babes in my gc's for constantly supporting me and encouraging me. For remaining patient yet excited. Yall are the real MVPs.
> 
> Also to Lea and Natalie who read this first and assured me it wasn't total crap haha. Love yall!
> 
>  
> 
> So without further ado. Let's go!

Louis stands with his hip resting against the door jamb, arms folded across his chest, watching as Harry meticulously attempts to fasten the large pussy bow at the neck of his shirt. Louis cant take his eyes off of his love as he pokes his tongue out in concentration trying to get it just so. Louis shakes his head with a fond smile when Harry's hands begin to shake, as he tries and fails three times to do it successfully, before Louis takes pity on him.

“Relax, baby. You look beautiful,” Louis assures him with a smile, gently slapping Harry's hands away as he comes to stand in front of him, chuckling softly when he sighs in frustration, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. Louis takes the two delicate pieces of material in his hands, allowing himself a moment to enjoy the feel of it on his warm skin, before he begins to tie them together, just how he knows Harry likes.

“I am so, so proud of you, of the person you've become,” Louis says when he is finished, and he kisses Harry delicately on the cheek. “You have come so far from the shy, sixteen year old boy who cried over what people thought about him.” Harry blushes at Louis’ words, the vivid memory floating back to the forefront of his mind.

He looks down at the plethora of rings adorning his slim fingers, and he can feel his cheeks heating as Louis continues to praise him, showering him with compliments. He still doesn't feel all that confident in himself or his abilities, some days he still isn't sure how people are going to react to his music or his sense of fashion, but Louis is right. He has come such a long way over the years, leaving that scared little boy behind him.

“Thank you, Lou. I do feel confident. I do feel beautiful and sexy. I feel…” Harry's sentence trails off, as if he is unsure how to finish, still not meeting Louis’ eyes. Louis uses his thumb and forefinger to gently hold Harry's chin, raising his head so that he is forced to look at him.

“You feel what, H?”

“I feel-- powerful.” The word comes out on a whispered breath, Harry still uncertain that he should feel this way, even now. A stupidly large grin and pride filled look spreads over Louis' features then, and that is all the reassurance that Harry will ever need.

“That's because you are, my love. You are powerful, and it's okay to feel that way. It's also okay to feel a little scared or intimidated by that, too. But remember, you aren't that sixteen year old boy anymore. You are a handsome, beautiful, successful, talented, loving man and husband, and the world is a better place for having you in it. You inspire so many people to be the most true and honest version of themselves because they see you doing the same and look up to you as a role model. They see that you have the courage to bend norms and express who you are and in doing that, you show them that it's okay. It's okay for them to be whoever and whatever they want to be.” Harry's eyes begin to swim with tears and at some point during Louis’ speech, they both sought the comfort of the other, their hands now joined together between their bodies.

“I--I’m just so afraid I'm going to disappoint them. That this isn't enough. I've seen Twitter Louis, I know what they are hoping and dreaming for, and this isn't it.”

“No, this may not be long flowing locks, a gaudy costume, a sparkling rainbow dress or a sequin factory disaster scene. It's something much, much, better than that.” Louis looks into Harry's eyes then and all Harry can see reflected back at him is true sincerity. He knows in his heart that Louis means every word that he is saying, not that Harry ever had a doubt he would lie to him. He has been obsessing over this outfit with his stylist, Harry Lambert, for months, and he assured him, as well as Louis, that it is perfect. Something is just making him uneasy, and he can't quite figure out what. It is this uncertainty that is gnawing at his gut and has him a jumpy ball of nerves.

“Better how?”

“How? Because it is simply _you_. It isn't a costume, Harry. It isn't an elaborate scheme or wearable object that requires a team of thirty to get you in and out of it. You wont need an army of dedicated people who are being paid ridiculous amounts of money just to help you take a piss. No. This is simply, you. My Hazza. The Harry you have always been and were always meant to be.” Harry can't help the enormous smile threatening to split his face, or the stray tear that rolls down his cheek at Louis’ words. He just feels so overcome with emotion at Louis’ continued show of love and adoration.

More than once he has told himself that this amazing man standing before him is far too good for him. That he doesn't deserve him and never has, and this is another example of that. He always knows what to say to boost Harry's confidence, always telling him the honest truth without being cruel and unkind, always managing to fill Harry's heart with love and pride to the point he fears it may break through his ribcage at a moments notice.

This is how it has always been between them. Unconditional love, trust and honesty. Both of them knowing when it is time to let the other shine. Both of them knowing when the other needs a boost of confidence and moral support. They have always worked together as a team. As a well oiled, two cog machine with no sense of failing in sight. This is how they are and have always been and will always continue to be, and Harry knows he is the luckiest man on Earth.

“I love you,” is all he says in response, because what do you say when you are praised so highly by the person you love most?

“I love you too, baby. Now go. Get out of here and knock 'em dead. They're going to love it as much as they love you, I promise.”

“Are you su--”

“I swear to God and the gays, Harry, if you ask me if I'm sure again, I'll tear you out of it right now and show you how perfect it is.” All Harry can do is blush and giggle as he sneaks one final check of himself in the mirror before he heads out the door, blowing Louis a kiss over his shoulder as he leaves.

 

\---------------------------

 

As the limousine pulls up to the front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Harry's heart rate spikes, and he feels sweat forming on his top lip and brow. He tries to gently dab it away with his fingertips, not wanting to ruin the subtle layer of makeup he is wearing. He wasn't sure about wearing any at first, but it is the MET Gala after all. He doubts a thin layer of foundation, some well placed highlighter and blush pink eyeshadow is really going to end the world. Although, knowing his fans, it just might.

The thought makes him smile, and he takes a deep steadying breath as the limousine is immediately surrounded by Paparazzi and people employed by the MET to welcome arriving guests. He has arrived slightly late, meaning that Anna, Serena and Stefani have more than likely already made their grand entrance. As he looks out of the window, however, he can see Alessandro stepping out of the limousine in front of his in his stunning pink ensemble, and his nerves lessen slightly. He won't have to walk the pink carpet alone and be bombarded by interviewers by himself. He will at least have someone to walk alongside.

He reaches for the door handle after another breath, just as it is pulled open from the other side, and it is then that the reason for all of his nervousness hits him squarely in the chest, almost knocking the breath right out of him. He is the _youngest_ co-host of the MET Gala in its history. He hasn't walked a red (or pink) carpet since the Dunkirk Premiere, he has spent the last couple of years doing his best not to label or define his sexuality, he avoids the media frenzy and nosey interviewers at all costs, but lastly and most importantly, Louis isn't with him. All of that combined with some strategically covered nipples, all adds up to a rapidly imminent panic attack.

He should be used to the blinding flash of cameras and hundreds of strangers calling his name. He should be used to being the centre of attention and everyone scrambling to speak with him, but he isn’t. It never gets easier, and his nerves have never completely faded away. If anything this is more nerve wracking than most of the other things he has done in his career. This isn’t a tour show where he knows everyone there is dying to see him. This isn’t a One Direction show where even if he stumbles and falls to a heap, the people there to watch are still going to love him. No. This isn't that. This is his time to be judged. And for what? Fashion? Fundraising? It all seems a trifle silly when you think about it that way.

He stops with one heeled foot halfway out of the limousine, gripping onto the door handle and door frame with white knuckled hands, his rings digging into his flesh. “Breathe, dammit. You're fine,” he whispers, giving himself a mental slap to snap himself out of his spiraling thoughts. “You are Harry Styles. Youngest Co-Chair in the history of the MET Gala. You are young. You are powerful. You can do this.” He hopes that none of the paparazzi surrounding him can hear him. All he needs is headlines detailing his deteriorating mental health because some idiot looking for a quick buck heard him talking to himself. It is Louis’ words of encouragement from earlier that ultimately propel him out of the car to a foray of flashing lights and indecipherable shouts. _It's something much, much better than that… it is_ _simply,_ ** _you_**.

 

\----------------------

 

“Where the hell is he? All he had to do was get in the limo and drive half a dozen bloody blocks. What’s taking him so long?” Louis grumbles as he watches celebrities flood the pink carpet of the MET Gala from the comfort of their hotel room sofa. Harry was so disappointed when Louis refused his offer to be his plus one, but Louis just could not bring himself to do it.

He explained to Harry, with a tear in his eye and a lump in his throat, that although making a public appearance together after all of these years, (at the MET Gala when this year's theme is Camp : Notes on Fashion) would be a spectacular statement, it would only set both of their careers back years. More specifically Louis’.

His management teams have been consistently trying to portray him as a ‘man’s man’ and a ‘lad’, despite everyone who knows him knowing that is complete and utter rubbish, and he just didn’t want to have to deal with the monumental shit fight that would ensue if he went against that. Yes he may love football, and enjoy a beer down at the local pub with the lads, but he also loves fashion and expressing himself. He, in return, has had to squash what comes so naturally to him for years in the name of building a career that feels like it’s just never getting there. The finish line always seems to move further away from him the closer he gets to it, and this would be catastrophic for him career wise.

As much as he would have loved nothing more than to walk down the pink carpet hand in hand with his love, showing him off like some priceless artwork (because let's be honest Harry has the face for it) he just couldn’t justify putting his career back another three years. Harry of course had understandably been upset, but he had also understood why this couldn’t happen. Wanting nothing more than for Louis to finally release his album and go on tour like they’d been planning for years. So as a consolation prize, Louis had promised to watch from their hotel room and cheer him on, with the help of Harry’s stylist, Harry Lambert.

“I’m sure he’ll be along any minute, Louis. You know as well as I do he loves a spectacular entrance. I’m not blind, I’ve seen Twitter. The fans won’t settle for anything less,” Harry replies, walking out of the kitchenette with a serving tray loaded with junk food and two beers clasped in his other hand.

“Yeah. You’re right. He probably made the driver do a lap of the building four times and make a pit stop for an avocado smoothie or summat. He was a bit nervous before he left. Wasn’t sure the fans were gonna be overly thrilled with his outfit.” Harry chuckles at Louis’ words as he sets the tray down on the coffee table in front of them, holding a beer out to Louis. Louis takes the beer that is offered to him with a smile, taking a large swig before he focuses his attention back on the TV, his phone open on Twitter in his lap. “Speaking of Twitter, the fans are losing their minds and he hasn’t even arrived yet. It’s mental.”

“That’s what I love about them. He could turn up in a hessian sack and they’d still love it. I don’t know what he had to be nervous about. He looks amazing. Sometimes they’re a little scary, but for the most part they just give me an ego boost.”

“You’re lucky I like you pal. I can’t believe you convinced him to get his ear pierced just for this. He didn't even go to a piercer! Just whipped out the sewing kit, a little gold stud he apparently had ‘lying around’ and away he went.”

“Convinced? Who said anything about convincing? All I did was send a text asking what he thought about the idea after I saw those earrings at Gucci, and the next day he had it done. I didn't think he was going to pierce it himself! I didn’t exactly hold a gun to his head.”

“Yeah, I’ll give you that. I don’t think the fans ever got over that one performance we did where he wore that little cross earring. They still go on about it now. To be fair he looked fit that day so can you really blame them? And that tiny gold stud looked amazing on him.”

“Of course it looked amazing. I’m his stylist remember. Your man always looks fit because I dress him. You’re a lucky man, Louis.” Just as Louis is about to make a witty remark about preferring to undress Harry than dress him, their attention is quickly brought back to the television when a chorus of ‘Harry! Over here! Harry! Turn left please! Harry! Harry! Harry!’, accompanied by screams from fans lined up outside, fills the room.

“Jesus…” Louis breathes, a rush of air following the word as his eyes land on Harry walking up the pink carpet with Alessandro.

“Jesus has nothing to do with this, babe. Fuck he looks amazing!” Harry gushes, clasping both of his hands together in front of him as they watch Harry pose for pictures.

“Did he just shake that paps hand?”

“It’s Harry. Of course he bloody did. Only your man would ever introduce himself to a pap and thank them before he got his picture taken. I swear that boy forgets that half the planet knows his name.”

“He’s too nice for his own good. Wouldn’t catch me being nice to ‘em. In fact. I think there’s a video of me calling one a fucking loser if I’m honest.”

“Look at him!” Harry suddenly screams, and Louis almost falls off the sofa that he is precariously perched on in fright, having inched closer and closer to the edge when Harry had made his appearance. “What is that pose!? Oh my God he looks--” Harry’s sentence is cut off as Louis answers for him, tears suddenly filling his eyes as he watches on with pride.

“Powerful.”

“Exactly. He looks so powerful. Like he belongs there. Where did he get those poses from? He looks devine!” Louis can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes him at Harry’s question, which earns him a confused look.

“He said he wanted to practice some poses the other night. Although, why he thought he needed the practice I have no idea. You’d think he’d be an expert at posing after all of those tour photos.”

“Agreed.”

“However, he was adamant he wanted to so we were practicing the other night. And I couldn’t help but think a few of them were familiar but couldn’t for the life of me work out why they were. Till it hit me.”

“What did?”

“They were my poses! From back in the X Factor and Up All Night Days. That cheeky bugger had googled, and I quote, ‘Twink Louis Tomlinson’ and used my stupid poses as inspiration.” This tidbit of information is accompanied by evil laughter from the man beside him, and Louis can’t be mad. It really is hilarious if you think about it, and soon both of them have tears streaming down their faces.

“If we are being perfectly honest,” Harry starts when they are able to breathe normally again, “He seems to be one of the only ones that actually remembered that the theme is camp. I think Katy Perry read her invitation wrong. The theme is camp, honey, not lamp!” Harry yells at the TV as Katy Perry walks past in a fully functioning chandelier outfit, which results in more stupid laughter from the both of them. Louis should feel bad for laughing at other people’s outfits. But he doesn’t. Some of them are just plain ridiculous.

“I know Harry suggested the carpet be pink, and to be fair it really works. Especially with his all black outfit, nice job man,” Louis says, giving Harry a high five for his expert styling prowess. “But why in the hell is everyone else dressed in pink?”

“Who would bloody know. Clearly no one else knows what camp means or stands for, and I don’t know where they get this notion that camp equals pink. I do love Alessandro’s outfit, though. And that hair! So chic. So gorge. Just perfect. That crown is stunning. I wish Harry had let me convince him to wear a headdress. But he loves to break my heart.”

“I would have to agree with you that a crown or summat would have just taken it that tiny bit further. Or a tiara! Now that would have been ace.” Harry gasps, his hand coming up to his heart and Louis can’t help but notice what he thinks is a tear trailing down his cheek. “Are you crying? Why are you crying!? Are you alright, lad?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Harry sobs, reaching for the tissue box in the middle of the coffee table once again. “It’s just. You really are wasted.”

“Wasted? I’ve only had half a beer.”

“Not drunk, idiot boy. Wasted. You have a killer figure and an ass to die for however you insist on covering it up with dad jeans and football tops. Yet here you sit telling me we should have gotten H a tiara. A waste. Such a waste.”

“Don’t remind me. I mean a tracksuit is all fair and well if you wanna have a kickabout with the lads, but it’s not all I’m about. You know that.”

“Of course I know! And if I ever hear you calling your braces tragic again, I’ll beat the chav right out of you with my clutch. You’ll have the Gucci logo branded into that divine ass for a week.”

“Give it a rest! Those braces were tragic! I can’t believe not one of you told me how horrid they looked.”

“I remember at least one person loving them,” Harry fires back with a wink.

“Enough out of you. Shut up so I can focus on the only ass that matters. That one,” Louis says and points to the TV where Harry currently has his back to the camera.

 

\-----------------------------

 

Harry feels his phone vibrate in the absurdly large and deep pocket of his trousers. He knows that phones and cameras aren’t allowed inside the event, so he had Harry create him a way to smuggle his phone in. You don’t get to be the Co-Chair of the MET Gala every day, and this is a once in a lifetime opportunity he wasn’t about to pass up. Plus he doubts very much that anyone is going to search him before he enters the building.

He politely excuses himself from a rather dull conversation he is having with an interviewer, leaving poor Alessandro to fend for himself, and hides himself behind a wall of pale pink roses topped with flamingo feathers. They really did turn out better than he was hoping they would. When he is sure that no one who matters can see him, he fishes his phone out of his pocket to see his screen lit up with a text message from Louis.

_Your back looks sinful in that shirt you know_

Is all it says, and Harry can’t help but smile down at the screen like an idiot. He knows that Louis has a weird obsession with his back, so to wear a shirt with a sheer back panel wasn’t at all by accident.

**_Does it? I wasn’t aware_ **

_You know fine well that it does. God the things I want to do to you right now…_

**_Oh really? What things?_ **

_Well..._

**_Sorry! Have to run. Things to do. People to schmooze. You know how it is. Love you!_ **

Harry chuckles to himself as he stuffs his phone back into the pocket of his trousers. That will teach Louis to be a pervert and get himself all worked up. Harry can feel it vibrate twice more as he makes his was back to Alessandro, excusing himself for disappearing, but chooses to ignore it. He will let Louis stew for a little while longer.

Harry continues to pose for what feels like three thousand five hundred and four photos, which in reality is probably only half of the photos that have actually been taken of him. He shakes the hand of everyone he meets, introduces himself politely and alternates between serious faces, with masculine powerful poses and more feminine ones. Those he feels are his favourite. Always preferring a delicate hand on his hip, or a cheerful smile over the more ‘sexy’ poses. Louis swears to him that he can pull off what he calls his ‘I own your ass, and I know it’ look, but Harry loves to disagree with him. He just doesn’t see himself as a typically sexy person. Or someone who is overly masculine or dominating for that matter, so he just can’t see it when Louis tells him that he can be like that too.

After more interviews and photos, which to be quite honest Harry is getting sick of, they are moved to the top of the stairs where the Chair and Co-Chairs pose for yet again, more photos. Harry’s eyes are starting to sting from the constant flash of cameras, and his face is beginning to hurt from smiling. All he wants to do at this point is eat and get the party started. He is hungry now, and he still has another outfit change to get through before they can even get to the ‘event’. Plus his phone is now burning a hole in his pocket. He knows that Louis has sent him at least another four messages since he checked his phone, and he is dying to find out what they say.

“That will be all the photos for now, thank you,” Harry hears Anna say then, and he sags with relief, earning a chuckle from Alessandro. As they all begin to disperse inside, Alessandro falls into step beside him.

“It really gets to be too much after a while, no?” He says in his thick Italian accent. Harry blushes at his comment, having hoped that he was able to hide the relief that he didn’t have to pose for another stiff picture.

“It’s always been one of the worst things about having fame. Always having to pose for photos. A few is fine, but not for hours. It's taken us an hour just to get up the stairs, Ally.” Alessandro pats him tenderly on the back at that, nodding his head in agreement with a grin.

“We do look fabulous, though. Gucci looks great on you.”

“As does it look great on you. You were the one who said more is more. I can’t believe you made Jared a replica of his own head.”

“I mean, what can I say? He loves to be daring. And who am I to say no to that?” They both chuckle quietly at that as they move further into the building towards the hall that the gala dinner will be held in.

Everywhere Harry looks he can see walls of beautiful pink rose heads, enormous pink flamingo feathers, and even giant pink flamingos suspended from the ceiling. Interspersed between all of this pink finery are glass cabinets housing beautiful outfits covered in sequins, ruffles, lace and feathers. After all, that is the main reason they are here.

It is all very ostentatious, but it still looks elegant and beautiful. He is glad that he was able to steer the panel away from the boring red carpet and same old, same old they drag out every year. If he took his inspiration from a few ‘books’ he has read, then no one has to know. And if he whispers, ‘have a good night, Rupert’ to a flamingo as he walks past it, no one has to know that either. It also helps that Anna Wintour, the Chair of the entire event, is a huge fan of his music. Alessandro is also a close friend, having worked with both himself and Harry Lambert to create most of his tour wardrobe. All that remained were Stefani and Serena and they were both in agreement that a pink carpet suited the theme of the event perfectly.

As they near the hall, the charter of voices begins to grow louder, most guest already having made their way inside ahead of them. The glass paneled walls are lit up pink to match the rest of the decor, and it gives the large room a spectacular glow that just has to be seen to be truly appreciated. Seeing as Harry is a Co-Chair of the event, he has been asked to make a small speech and perform for the attending guests. Of course he agreed readily, never passing up an opportunity to perform. This time it may be in front of a select group of his peers, but that won't stop him from performing his heart out the way he always does.

“Good afternoon, Mr Styles,” a smartly dressed young man says as he arrives at the double doors leading into the hall. “If you require an outfit change before the proceedings begin, I will be happy to show you to your private dressing room.”

“Oh. Umm-- yeah. That would be great. Thanks,” Harry stutters out, almost forgetting he was going to change his outfit at all, slightly taken aback by the efficiency of the young man before him. After Louis’ comments from earlier about tearing his outfit from him, and his less than subtle text messages, Harry is deliberating with if he should even bother. It would be a shame to waste so many people's time and effort though if he chose not to wear his second outfit.

“I'll find our table, Harry. See you in there,” Alessandro says, patting Harry on the back once again as the young man steers him down a corridor to his right he hadn't even noticed was there. His mind is now caught between whether he should change his outfit, and what the texts from Louis say that are still boring a hole in his hidden pocket, so when they come to a sudden stop, Harry has to catch himself before he topples over.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Mr Styles. I should have given you more warning. It is a little hard to see in here tonight. The mood lighting is a lovely touch, though.”

“Please, call me Harry,” Harry starts, smiling shyly at the young man he still doesn’t know the name of. “It's not your fault, or the lighting. I just wasn't paying attention to where we were going. I-- I uh-- have a lot on my mind.” He hopes that his lame attempt at an excuse gets him off the hook, and that he won't be the laughing stock of Twitter when it gets out that he almost trampled a poor usher to death with his heels.

“No need to apologise, Harry. It's completely understandable that you have a lot on your mind. You being Co-Chair of the entire gala after all.” Harry doesn't have the heart to tell him that his mind is occupied by thoughts of which outfit is going to make Louis’ dick harder, how he is going to get his drunken self back into the one he is currently wearing if he changes it, or that if he hears the words ‘youngest Co-Chair’ again he just might scream, so he mumbles out a half jumbled agreement before thanking the nameless young man, and heading into his dressing room.

 

\------------------------

“Harry! What are you doing!?” Mark yells over the thumping music at the sloth like creature currently making himself at home on his back. They have made it to the official gala after party and things are in full swing.

“I'm danzing Mark. Issa party! Why aren't you danzing!?” Harry slurs out, far too many double vodka and red bulls in to even care if he is making sense, or how clingy he is being. He doesn't even like vodka, or red bull for that matter, but it's what Louis drinks when they party so he figured he would have one for him on account of him not being able to attend. What Harry didn't account for was one turning into five or six, possibly even eight. He doesn't count very well when he is drunk.

“Would you like me to play you a song? Will that get you to let go of me for five minutes?” Mark asks, craning his neck over his shoulder to see Harry's pouty face nodding furiously. Mark chuckles as he reaches a hand down to his belly to pat Harry's that are firmly clasped around his middle. “Give it to me, Harry. What song do you want?”

“Umm-- oh! I know! Farellee!”

“Farellee? I don't think I've heard of that one?”

“Yes. You. Have,” Harry slurs, patting Mark's stomach in between words.

So maybe Harry is a tad more inebriated than he thought he was, but it's a party, and he is having fun. He feels silly at having felt nervous about the whole thing earlier. He is having the time of his life. It's even more fun knowing he isn't the only one who smuggled their phone into the event and has posed for a selfie with just about everyone. Which his drunk brain finds ironic, given he was only complaining to Alessandro about having to pose for pictures a few hours ago. He even thinks he called Cher, the actual _Cher_ , a bitch at one point, and is sincerely hoping his mind is playing tricks on him. “You, know. Farellee. By Amy what's her name!”

“Oh! Valerie. Gotcha,” Mark says through a laugh, and a few seconds later, the opening beats begin to blare through the speakers. Harry immediately lets go of Mark's middle, almost sending both of them flying out if the DJ booth as he starts swaying and clapping enthusiastically.

“Yes! Come one Marky Mark, danze!”

Harry doesn't care who is watching him, or if anyone is filming him or taking pictures. This is Louis’ song. He always sings it so beautifully. It's also why Harry places his hand on his belly a lot. He only made Louis sing it for him roughly one thousand and three times (and that's only in the last six months), so to pick up that small gesture isn't so far fetched.

This song takes him back to a time when they were young, when their love was a new and precious thing. To a time when they wanted to spend every waking (and sleeping) moment together. Back to a time where Harry sat nervously in his mother's kitchen, grasping onto Louis’ hand for dear life under the table. Trying to swallow down a lump in his throat as he worked up the courage to tell her that he was leaving home. Back to a time where Louis told him he was wonderful and beautiful for simply breathing, even though he never felt that way. Back to a time when Louis convinced him to paint his nails on live radio because it made him beautiful.

Back to a time when he helped Louis to cook a meal for them because he wanted to do something romantic, despite being able to crucify pancakes and burn water. A meal that Louis still cooks for them every year on their anniversary. Back to a time when they didn't care who saw them or how obvious they were. Back to a time when they were free.

“Harry, are you okay?” Harry is pulled from his wayward thoughts by the sound of a concerned voice and a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Alexa! I'm so good. Amazingly amazing. Why?”

“You're-- crying.”

Harry reaches a hand up to his face to find tears trickling down his cheek. He wasn't even aware that he was crying until Alexa pointed it out. He just assumed his blurred vision was a by product of far too much alcohol and the presumably very late (or very early) hour.

“Oh. I-- uh. Yeah I'm fine.” Alexa gives him a small smile that says she doesn't quite believe him, but she doesn't question him any further.

Harry resumes his manic dancing, trying to avoid another awkward conversation like the one he just had. He has no reason to be upset. Sure, he and Louis may not be as free as they once were. Sure they may not be able to be seen together, and have to pretend they aren't even on the same continent as each other most of the time, but they still have each other.

Sure he has to share Louis with Eleanor and a baby everyone knows isn't even his, but they have seen it through. Sure it's been hard at times. Sure they have both slipped and thought maybe it would be better if they just gave up. Maybe it would be better if they ended all the lying, sneaking and bullshit. But what would that achieve? What good would come of that?

Nothing. Nothing good would come of it. All that would do is break both of their hearts, minds and spirits. It is said that there is only one person truly meant for you on this Earth. The other half to your heart and soul, and for Harry that has and always will be Louis.

Louis still tells him his painted nails make him beautiful. Louis still tells him he is the most precious thing on Earth for simply blinking. Louis is still supportive of everything that he does. Louis is still a constant source of encouragement and love. Louis is still the one. They're still together after all of these years. Still going strong. Nothing about that has changed, and if it hasn't already, Harry doubts very much that it ever will.

Harry was upset that he would have to experience this moment in his life and career without Louis by his side, but he knows that he is there, in the shadows, cheering him on from the sidelines. He still has Louis’ words dancing through his mind. He can still feel the brush of his lips against his temple and can still feel the warmth of his hands on his. He doesn't need Louis to be right next to him, to always have him near.

Suddenly all Harry wants to do is go home. Not to some swanky hotel room that is an exact replica of the other nine hundred and six he has been in. No. He wants to return to his home. To the sunshine of his life. To his Louis.

 

\------------------------

 

At some time around 7am, Harry stumbles his way through the hotel room door with as much finesse as a ballet dancing elephant. He had assumed it was very early hours of the morning when he'd decided to leave the after party, but what he hadn't expected, was for the sun to already be rising. He messaged Louis to let him know that he was on his way home, not even bothering to look at the other thirty illegible drunk texts he'd apparently sent but hadn't received a reply. And as if that wasn’t nearly enough to have Harry questioning his existence, to make matters one hundred times worse, Kendall had chosen that exact moment to leave the party, too. Convenient.

That stunt had resulted in the gaggle of paparazzi that had been staking out the venue to bombard him with questions about their ‘rekindled romance’, and Kendall had left him to fend them off on his own because of course she had. He hadn't been stupid enough to dignify any of their unwarranted and unsubstantiated questions with an answer, and for that, he'd done a mental victory dance all the way back to the hotel. Given his inebriated and sleep deprived state, he knows that was something close to a miracle because he has always been terrible at defusing those types of situations and dodging awkward questions.

Now, however, he hopes that he hasn't woken Louis up, and that he isn't pissed at him for partying the night away with his ‘ex’. Or at least that's what the tabloids would have everyone believe. All he wants to do is curl up in bed next to Louis and sleep off what is sure to be the hangover from Hell. Harry is so busy attempting to be quiet though, that he doesn't notice Louis standing in the doorway to the master suite.

“Do you need some help, Harold. Maybe a light? Or a brass band, perhaps?” Harry jumps a foot in the air at the sound of Louis’ voice, almost knocking a lamp over that's probably worth more than the outfit he's wearing (which is saying something) and falls to a heap on the floor after getting his heels tangled in the rug at his feet. Louis gasps in shock, followed by muffled laughter as he rushes to help him.

“Fuck. That hurt.” Harry rubs at his ankle as Louis kneels down to his eye level, running a hand through his mussed curls. Or what is left of them anyway. Louis must have been watching Harry stumble and curse under his breath for at least the last five minutes with a stupid endeared smile on his face; Harry just knows he was.

“Are you okay, baby?” Harry glares at Louis, as if his current state isn't answer enough to his question. At least he hopes he is glaring.

“No. ‘Mnot.”

“Are you pouting?”

“No. I'm glaring atchoo.”

“Oh, sorry. My mistake.” Harry crosses his arms over his chest at this, his full bottom lip sticking out, trying his hardest to scowl at Louis for teasing him. He doesn't think he is succeeding though. Louis looks far to smug for it to be working, so he gives up trying and slumps backwards until he is sprawled on his back, a mass of fabric and limbs.

“How long were you standing there for?” Is Harry’s next question. He is staring at the ceiling, and it may or may not be spinning. He also doesn’t know what else to say, and his mind is starting to become foggy, very much resembling the inside of a candy floss machine.

“Long enough to hear you tell a lamp to be quiet and your shoes to stop clomping so loudly.” Harry turns his head to the left, side eyeing Louis at that, struggling to believe he had done either of those things, but resigning himself to the fact that he had in fact done just that. In his defence, they were being loud, he was just trying to be a courteous husband.

“I’m really, really drunk ‘oobear.”

“Oh, I can see that, love.”

“Jus’ wanna sleep, Lou.” By this point in the conversation, Harry has given up the will to live and all coherent brain functions. His eyelids feel like they weigh a tonne and his mouth feels like the Sahara has taken up residence there. He is sweaty, smells like a grubby dive bar, is in desperate need of a shower, but more importantly, cuddles and a good night’s sleep. Or two days. Whichever.  

“I know, baby. I know. Come on, up you get. I have a surprise for you.” This gets Harry’s attention, and he feels slightly more coherent. Okay marginally. Slightly may have been a gross over exaggeration.

Louis helps Harry to get off of the floor then, which to anyone watching would have been a sight to see given that Harry is like a drunk octopus looking for his keys and is a good foot taller than Louis in his heels. He so badly wants Louis to take them off for him, but he doesn’t fancy Louis losing an eye today. He likes Louis’ eyes, so he allows the smaller man to steer him slowly in the direction of the master suite, stopping them in the doorway.

“Why‘re we stopping, Lou?”

“Why don’t you have a look for yourself, and you’ll see.”

Harry tries to lift his head from where it is resting on top of Louis’ and struggles to focus his eyes on the sight in front of him. This only makes his head spin faster and his eyes feel heavier, so he shuts them again with a groan.

“Can’t, Lou. My head feels funny.”

Louis chuckles at his severely drunk husband and rubs his back soothingly. Harry briefly wonders if Louis has noticed that he is back to wearing his black ensemble and not the outfit he’d been pictured in at the after party. Sometimes Harry finds his and Louis’ fans a touch scary, always knowing -- or rather guessing where they are at any given moment. He hopes it had come in handy yesterday and this morning, allowing Louis to almost piece together a timeline of gala events and live it vicariously through jumbled pictures and snippets of video. All containing Harry, of course.

“But it’s such a lovely surprise. I worked on this all day yesterday while you were schmoozing the rich, the famous and James Charles. Whose bright idea was it to invite him anyway?”

“Dunno. I thought he was a waiter.” Both of them laugh at that, Louis pressing his firm lips to Harry's cheek as he moves out from under his dead weight. This does nothing to help Harry stay upright or coherent, only pushing him further towards a hospital trip and sleep.

“Well, I can see how you would think that, love. I take it you've been on Twitter?” Harry nods his head slowly in answer and then sighs, letting go of a burst of air.

“They hated my outfit, Lou.”

“Who did? Are you sure you were on Twitter? Because everyone on my timeline would disagree.”

“Erryone!” Harry suddenly yells, flinging his hands up in the air for dramatic effect. Or because he's a drunk diva. Whichever.

“Who is everyone?”

“The Shun. Locals. Fans. They hated it. They-- they said I was cross dressing, Lou.” Harry is becoming more sober as the minutes pass by, it having been at least a few hours since his last drink. He's also now half sober, upset and his ass and ankle hurt from falling. “They didn't like that it was all black. They didn't like my trousers. They didn't like my heels or my earring. They said I was too plain and not ‘camp’ enough, and I missed the mark. I didn't, Lou! Harry and I spent months on this with Ally. I even read the bloody book on the topic, so that I would get it right! How can they say I got it wrong? I can't help that they didn't like the outfit. That's fine. But to say it wasn't camp, and I missed the mark? No. How can they say that?” Harry has made his way into the dark bedroom, his new found adrenaline propelling him forward, and at the end of his rather dramatic rant he flops down onto  what he prays is the bed and not thin are or an occasional chair, with his arm slung over his eyes.

“You really are an over grown, dramatic man child when you're drunk,” Louis says through a laugh. “Remind me to call the Academy to make sure they have your award ready.” Harry lifts his arm slightly so that he can glare at Louis again. It is then he realises that there is something soft brushing at the back of his neck and the almost exposed skin of his back. Meanwhile Louis continues to stand with his hip leaning against the door frame with a smug grin.

“What is touching me, and why do you look so smug?” Harry questions, leaning up on his elbows so that he can look at Louis better, his small frame cast in shadow as the lamps from the sitting room cast a golden glow around him. Louis doesn't answer, he simply pushes himself up off the door and saunters lazily into the room.

Harry watches him in silence, slowly and gently moving his long fingers through the unknown objects below him. Some feel silky and some almost feathery, but the room is still shrouded in darkness, the heavy drapes closed allowing no light from the outside to penetrate them.

“Close your eyes, I'm going to turn the light on,” Louis instructs, and Harry does as he is told. He hears the soft click of the light being turned on, and he can sense the room has brightened from behind his closed eyes. “Okay. You can open them.”

Harry blinks his eyes open slowly, allowing his sensitive irises time to adjust to the glaring light, but what he sees when they are finally open and focused takes his breath away.

“Lou… what did you do?”

 

\-------------------------

 

“Come on, let go. Come and sit with me,” Louis chuckles as Harry continues to pepper his face with sloppy kisses. He's been trying to detach Harry from his neck for the last five minutes. After realising what Louis had done, he had launched himself off of the bed, tripped over one of Louis’ stray shoes and almost sent them both flying out of the penthouse window, but all of Louis’ efforts have so far been to no avail. “Okay! Okay! I love you too, but please let go.”

Harry finally releases him, but continues to grasp one of Louis’ hands in his own as Louis leads him back towards the bed that is covered in pale pink rose petals and long, delicate, pink flamingo feathers. Louis plops down when he reaches the end of the bed, and Harry narrows his eyes at him.

“What? What's wrong?” Louis asks, confused by Harry's sudden sour expression.

“You could be a bit more careful, Lou. You're going to bruise the petals and squash the feathers.” Louis fixes him with an incredulous look, his mouth hanging slightly agape.

“Are you kidding me right now? You just flopped your giant behemoth ass down onto ‘em! This took me hours, Harold. _Hour_ s.”

“Really? It took _you_ hours to hang what appears to be at least twenty feet of pink organza from the ceiling, which might I add, is intertwined with twinkling fairy lights. It took _you_ hours to change the bed sheets to pink velvet, somehow find just the right shade of pink light bulb, and arrange all of these petals and feathers?”

“Well…” Louis starts, clearing his throat and scratching at the back of his neck as he tries to come up with a good enough excuse as to how he pulled all of this off. He decides, after a few moments and a well placed eyebrow raise from Harry, to tell the truth. “No. I didn't spend hours doing this. Harry knew some people who knew some people. _But_ , I did spend hours buying _this_.”

Louis hops up from the bed again and moves to the nightstand on his side of the bed. He pulls out a beautiful silver box, tied with a pink ribbon and watches as Harry's eyes widen in anticipation and fascination as he makes his way back to him. He sits down with exaggerated gentleness this time, and hands the box over to Harry in silence. He really hopes that Harry likes his gift. He's always been rubbish at gift buying, always trusting Harry's judgment when it comes to that, even for his own family, so he is praying for once he got it right.

“What is it?” Harry asks, still not having bothered to open it and find out for himself.

“Just bloody open it, Harold.”

Harry makes a disgruntled noise, then places the box on his lap and begins to methodically undo the pink ribbon bow, before sliding the lid off gently, and carefully pulling back the layers of pink tissue paper inside. It had annoyed Louis in the beginning how Harry had always taken care (and in his humble opinion an inhumanely long amount of time) when unwrapping or opening gifts, far too excited for Harry's reaction to whatever was inside.

His gift wrapping ability is nothing to write home about, but Harry has always taken the same amount of care peeling pack the layers upon layers of sticky tape Louis uses in his aid to keep the wrapping paper together, as he does with anyone else's. Now though, it is just another thing on the never ending list of reasons why he loves Harry more than anything or anyone else on the planet.

Before long Harry is holding a delicate and intricate gold tiara in his hands. Louis chose this one specifically for the hand crafted, pink roses that adorn the top, and the way that Harry is fighting to keep the smile from his face and the tears in his eyes from spilling over, is all the confirmation Louis needs to know that for once, he has chosen wisely.

“Louis. It-- It's beautiful. I don't understand. Why did you buy this for me?” Louis just shakes his head.

Of course Harry doesn't understand. Of course he doesn't get the reference, why would he? He has himself convinced that he failed. That he missed the mark. That everyone hates his outfit. And that is precisely why Louis agonized over sparkly tiaras in a boutique store downtown for over two hours. It's also why he paid the poor stuttering sales girl an extra thousand dollars for wasting her time and being so indecisive, and also why he had Harry Lambert pull far to many strings to make the room look like the inside of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. All for this man, sitting next to him, who doesn't realise how amazing he is.

“Because every King needs a crown. Or in this case, a twenty four carat gold hand crafted tiara, with a carat of diamonds and hand crafted pink diamond roses.”

“Louis William Tom--”

“Don't you dare use my full name, Harry. And no I'm not telling you how much I paid for it. Just don't check the bank account, okay? It doesn't matter how much it cost. All that matters is that you love it.”

“Of course I love it, you fool. Who wouldn't? It's stunning. That still doesn't tell me why?”

“I already told you why. Every King, needs a crown.” Louis’ tone is decisive, leaving now room for argument as he takes the tiara from its box then carefully arranges it in amongst Harry's wayward, chocolate curls. Louis really, really wishes Harry had worn a crown with his outfit, but now, seeing Harry like this, he is so glad that he will forever have this image burned into his brain for the rest of his life, and only he was lucky enough to witness it. He may be slightly possessive like that. Sue him.

“I'm no King, Louis. Sure, the fans call us Prince Harry and Prince Louis, but that doesn't make me a King now does it?”

“Can I ask you something?” The question is soft, as Louis moves the empty box from Harry's lap and taking both of his ring clad hands in his own. Harry nods his agreement, so Louis continues. “Why is it, that after almost ten years, you still don't see yourself the way I do? Hmm? Why do you not see the King you are when you look in the mirror?”

Harry blushes at Louis’ words, automatically dropping his eyes to where both of their hands are joined. He is, if nothing else, predictable. And yet completely surprising and unpredictable all at the same time. A conundrum Louis has spent ten years trying to figure out. He doesn't care that he hasn't; he would happily spend another one hundred and ten trying.

“Hey. Don't do that. Don't shy away from me, Haz.” Harry peeks up at Louis through his lashes, his startling jade eyes full of tears. “Baby, why are you crying?”

“I-- I don't know. You always make me feel so special and so loved. Like in your eyes, I'm some kind of-- of…”

“King?”

“Well...yeah.” Louis smiles knowingly at Harry as the word sink in, but he can tell that he still doesn't believe what he is saying.

“Do you wanna know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think,” Louis begins conversationally, moving a handful of feathers and petals out of the way so that he can scoot closer to Harry. “I think that when you look in the mirror, you still see the curly haired, green eyed, sixteen year old version of yourself. The version of yourself that was at home on stage and amongst us lads, but felt that he had to always do better and be better, so that everyone would like him. The boy who cried during an interview because he was so worried that the whole world would hate him.”

The tears that Harry has been keeping at bay finally break their hold, sliding down his cheeks before pooling at the end of his strong chin and dripping onto his lap. Louis doesn't tell him not to cry this time, nor does he try to wipe them away, he simply continues on in his pursuit to remind the love of his life why that reflection of himself is so far removed from the man he is today.

“What you seem not to realise is that people love you simply because you are you, Harry. You don't have to try harder, or be better. Not at anything. At least, not for them. Do it for yourself. Never for them. People love you for your kindness and generosity. They love you for the joy you bring to their lives. They love you because you offer them a safe place to simply be themselves. They love you because you are unapologetically you. And without even realizing it, they have given that to you as well. They have given you the acceptance and love to let the real you shine through, and they love you more because of it.”

“Do you know what they are calling you, Harry? They are calling you the King of Camp. You. Harry Edward Tomlinson. Not Allesandro Michelle or Ezra Miller or Jared Letto and his creepy fake head. You.” This earns a watery chuckle from Harry, but Louis blazes on before Harry can even contemplate replying. He needs Harry to know that the world thinks that he is as special and amazing as Louis does. That they see in him exactly what Louis sees every single day. That the boy in that interview so long ago has blossomed into a stunning man with so much to offer the world. That they are finally getting to see Harry through Louis’ eyes.

“No one is calling me the King of Camp, Louis.”

“Look at me. Right now, Harry Styles.” Louis’ voice is firm, and Harry’s eyes shoot to his immediately, wide and shimmering. He knows fine well that Louis is bordering on losing his cool with him when he is forced to resort to using his ‘other’ name. “Now. You listen and you listen good. You. Are. The. King. Of. Camp. Do you understand me? You nailed it. Vogue, GQ, Vanity Fair, you name it they are singing your praises. You did it, baby. You showed the world who you really are, deep inside of here, and I am so endlessly fucking proud of you.”

Louis can feel Harry’s heart beating frantically in his chest through the thin layer of sheer fabric that is covering the area. Stray tears are bouncing off of Louis’ wrist and running down his arm, but he doesn’t remove his hand from where it is resting over Harry’s heart. A heart that Harry has informed him, on more than one occasion, has belonged to him from the moment that they first met. A heart made of gold, purity, kindness and all of the things the world needs more of. He can’t make himself move his hand from the warmth of Harry’s skin, the feel of it beneath his fingertips sending shivers down his spine and his breath to catch in his throat, but he can see the uncertainty in Harry’s eyes.

“You still don’t believe me, do you? You still don’t believe a word I am saying. Or what the press are saying about you. Or what the fans are. I don’t know any other way to make you believe me, Harry but I need you to. I need you to see how powerful, sexy, amazing, strong, masculine and feminine you are. Take your bloody pick, Harry, because you are all of those things. I dunno what the fuck I’m saying now. You are my King. Always have been, always will be. Now though, you are their King, too. Mine, the fans’ and the world’s. You are everyone’s King, Harry. You are the King of Camp and the world, and I love you so fucking much. What do I have to do to make you believe this, to make you believe in yourself?”

“I--I do believe you.” Harry’s voice is choked, a mere whisper. Louis is sure he would have missed what Harry said if he hadn't been sitting so close to him.

“Do you, though? Do you really, truly believe it, Harry?” Harry doesn’t say anything in response, not right away. He simply continues to stare deeply into Louis’ eyes. Louis doesn’t quite know what Harry is looking for within their depths, but he hopes he finds whatever it is that he is searching for.

“How?” Harry whispers again after what seems like an eternity of silence, and Louis is so confused by the question, he barely stops his brows from drawing together.

“How? How, what?”

“How am I the King of Camp, Lou? I need you to tell me. I want so badly to believe you, to believe them. I--I just don’t.” Harry’s head bows as the words slips from between his full lips, and Louis’ heart breaks a little as the golden crown perched so delicately atop his head slides forward, threatening to fall. It paints an eerie picture of just how hard they fight for what they have. Shows just how easy it would be for any of them to fall from grace, and Louis just won’t have it. This isn’t how it is going to end for Harry. He is not going to let the cruel and judgmental comments of a lifetime ago bring down the brightest star in his sky.

“I’m not going to tell you, Harry.” His resolve on this matter is firm. Words are already getting him nowhere.

“Why not?”

“Because you already don’t believe what I’m saying. Instead, I’ll just show you.”

 

\------------------------

 

“Come on. Get up,” Louis says as he springs from the bed leaving Harry feeling slightly dizzy but more than anything bereft of his warm touch.

“What? Why? What are you doing?” Harry is far too hungover (or drunk) for this, the toll of the last 24 hours is finally starting to catch up with him and all he wants to do is cry over his failure and sleep.

“Just get up and stop asking so many questions will you?”

Harry heaves a deep sigh, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles. They hurt from crying, lack of sleep and overall exhaustion. Why won’t Louis just accept the fact that he failed and let him sleep? Whilst these muddled thoughts are swirling around in his mind, he doesn’t notice Louis marching back towards him. It’s not until Louis is yanking him up from the bed by his wrist that he notices.

“Lou!” Harry whines, his head falling backwards, not before he realises he is in danger of completely losing his crown, and he reaches out with his other hand to catch it before it comes crashing down at his feet. “What are you doing? Can we please just go to bed? I’m so tired.”

“No. We can’t go to bed. Not until you believe me. I won’t have you lying awake all night, well, day talking yourself around in circles. Because you know as well as I do you are already questioning your entire existence. You’ve been doing it since you were 16. Now it’s time to put an end to it.”

“Fine. I believe you. Are you happy now?” Louis comes to a complete stop, and Harry stumbles right into him, the only thing stopping either of them from ending up in a tangled mess of bodies on the floor is the wall that Louis conveniently crashes into.

“Fuck, ouch! No! I don’t bloody believe you. Now get your ass in that bathroom and lets get on with this shall we? The sooner I get this through your thick curls, the sooner we can both sleep.”

Harry is taken aback by Louis’ brash words, and can’t quite understand where his sudden anger is coming from. Harry know’s Louis is only trying to make him feel better. He is the love of his life; he understands that Louis doesn’t want Harry to feel as though he has failed. He wants to make him feel better about the situation, and he appreciates Louis so much for all of the effort he went to while he was away. He obviously knew that he would need cheering up, but this anger? Why can’t he just let Harry wallow in self pity whilst he drowns his sorrows in a nice warm shower and sleeps it off for a few days? Why is he so hell bent on making Harry believe something that can’t possibly be true?

“Louis. Why are you so angry? Why does this matter so much to you?”

Harry doesn’t know what reaction he was expecting to those words, but Louis moving out of his grasp and staring at him incredulously with fat tears rolling down his cheeks, fists clenched at his sides in anger, definitely wasn’t it. Harry’s heart drops to the region of his toes and his lungs constrict painfully. He knows that Louis is angry with him now. His pulse speeds up to the point of being unhealthy, and he has begun to sweat. He feels sick to his stomach, and he instantly wishes he could take the words back. But he can’t. He knows he has pushed his pity party too far. It isn’t the first time that they have had an argument over this. They have been many and varied over the years, but Harry just can’t shake that little boy and all of his idiotic insecurities.

Back then, they may have been as valid as needing air to breathe, but now? Are all these arguments really worth it? Is it really worth it to make each other angry and upset because of a few people’s misguided albeit hurtful comments? Harry supposes not. Not really. Not when he really stops to think about just how stupid that is. He, himself, has told Louis on more than one occasion not to listen to the hurtful words of a few when the masses are singing his praises. And yet, here he is, allowing the same thing to come between him and Louis. Letting them drive a wedge between them. One that one day may just be their undoing. His entire world could come crashing down around him if he keeps doing this, keeps pitying himself when it’s not warranted. So a few people didn’t like one outfit that he wore to one event. In the grand scheme of his life, it is but a mere speck on the radar. A blink and he’s missed it, and yet here he stands, pushing Louis to breaking point over a person he will never meet, whose opinion doesn’t even really matter.

Whilst Harry had watched his life flash before his eyes, Louis had begun ranting, and Harry prays to any God or entity listening that he can pick up the conversation because the last thing he needs is to ask Louis to have to repeat himself because he wasn’t paying attention to him.

“...Of course I’m bloody argy with you, Harry. But more than anything I’m frustrated to all get out. You are acting like an idiot. I’m sorry to have to say that, but you are. We have been doing this for 10 fucking years. 10! Who gives a shit if one sad person behind a phone doesn’t like your outfit? Honestly, why do they matter? Why do you insist on believing them over Ally or Harry or me. _Anna fucking Wintour_ is shouting your name from the sodding rooftops, H, and you belive some nobody. Do you know how hurtful that is? That you would believe them over the Creative Director of Gucci, the Editor in Chief of Vogue magazine and your own fucking _husband_. Sure. Don’t believe Ally or Anna. That’s fine. But I’ve been your fucking cheerleader from the moment I laid eyes on you Harry Styles, so why won’t you at least believe me!”

Louis collapses to his knees and covers his face with his hands as his emotions finally take over, and he begins sobbing uncontrollably. They haven’t had an argument like this since Louis first introduced Harry to Eleanor all those years ago. Then, the argument had been valid, and Harry’s pity and self loathing had been understandable. Now, he has reduced Louis to tears over some person who will never know him like Louis does. Louis is right. He is acting like an idiot, and right in that moment, he has no idea how to fix it. He is beyond sorry for letting his insecurities take over, for letting something so insignificant get to him, and now it’s his turn to try and get Louis to believe him. If he doesn’t, he will only have himself to blame for it.

“Lou. Please, I do believe you. Please, don’t cry. I--I’m so sorry.”

Louis’ head whips up before Harry finishes speaking, and the look he gives Harry could almost be described as murderous. Harry’s heart feels as though it is breaking with the knowledge that it is he who has made Louis feel this way. It is he who has reduced Louis to an angry, frustrated ball of emotion, on his knees in the middle of a hotel room. How can he ever come back from this? How can he ever say he is sorry?

Harry drops to his knees in front of Louis, and as they crash into the plush carpet below him, his crown is jolted from his head. Louis gasps in horror as he hears the gold clatter across the tiles leading to the bathroom neither of them made it too. Harry’s eyes go wide watching it, as if in slow motion, some of the delicately crafted roses spring from their holdings and shatter across the tiles on impact.

“Do you see!?” Louis yells, tears still running freely down his cheeks. He tries to angrily wipe them away with his sleeve, but it is futile. “Do you see how fucking easy it would be for all of this to disappear, Harry? For you to lose everything? And for what? For. Fucking. What? Hmm? Some fucking sad idiot on the end of a phone who thinks they know better. It’s fucking sad, Harry. Sad that you would let them destroy you, us and your career.”

“I-I’m s-so sorry, L-Lou. P-Please. Please believe m-me. I’m so-sorry.”

Harry crawls his way closer to Louis so that their noses are almost touching. It is almost poetic how Harry is crawling on his hands and knees right now. He should grovel. He should beg for Louis’ forgiveness. He has been putting up with this nonsense for 10 years, and Harry wouldn’t have any room to blame Louis if he decided enough was enough. He would have brought it all on himself, he just hopes that he can save them, that he can fix this before what Louis is saying to him actually becomes a reality.

Harry doesn’t wait for Louis to answer. Instead he takes his tearstained face in his large hands and rubs their noses together, as if to test if Louis is going to poke out his eyeballs or not. Thankfully Harry’s eyes remain firmly in their sockets, and Louis doesn’t make to pull away from Harry’s touch. Harry feels like crying for an entirely different reason now, and so he continues on before Louis’ brain has a chance to catch up and he changes his mind about the gouging.

“Louis…” Harry’s breath ghosts across Louis’ lips, and he nuzzles his nose into the scruff of Louis’ cheek. He can feel it when Louis’ eyes flutter closed, his long lashes brushing against Harry’s temple from the angle, and it is when Louis’ body goes limp, a large sigh escaping him, that Harry knows that he is somewhat forgiven, and he joins their lips together in a searing kiss.

It doesn’t take long for Louis to snap out of his anger and frustration, and soon it he who is controlling the pace, both of them kneeling up in a gripping embrace. One hand is fisted tightly in the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck (or what is left of them) the other wrapped firmly around Harry’s waist. He always feels so small and delicate when Louis gets like this, and it's hard to remember that out of the pair of them, it is honestly Louis who is the small and delicate one. He always manages to make Harry feel like he is made of porcelain, as though he will shatter at a moments notice. Like he is as delicate as the rose petals still covering the bed.

“You. Are. The. King. Of. Camp. Do. You. Hear. Me?” Louis grits out between the kisses that he trails down the length of Harry’s neck. The sensation of Louis’ lips on his skin and the way that the words wash over him has Harry tingling from head to toe and all he can do is nod in agreement. “Do you hear me?” Louis repeats when he hears no answer leave Harry’s lips, Harry struggling to form a coherent sentence. He is still kinda drunk, still very tired, as well as now being turned on as hell and emotionally drained. He isn’t sure his brain knows how to form a sentence anymore.

“Ye--yes! Yes… I hear you.”

Without warning, Harry is again being hauled to his feet, Louis dragging him unceremoniously over to the bed before pushing him down onto it, so that he flops onto his back, his arms and legs splayed across the expanse. Harry’s heart feels like it is about beat straight through his rib cage, and all he can hear is their laboured breaths and the blood pounding in his ears. They haven’t had make up sex in the longest time, not having had an argument in a while, but Harry has to admit that this kind of sex was always one of his favourites. At one point, he would deliberately piss Louis off just for this reason alone, but never to this point. Never to the point that he was afraid that it may end them, so when Louis fixes him with a stare that can only be described as primal, Harry’s dick twitches violently in his trousers and is instantly at full hardness. He hisses out as it rubs against the material and he writhes on the bed under Louis’ intense gaze.

“Look at me.” Louis voice is low, yet commanding, and Harry’s eyes snap open and go to Louis’ instantly, as if he is unable to control his own body. As if Louis’ voice is like a spell, bending him to his will. Harry doesn’t dare blink or look away as Louis steps between his parted legs and begins to slowly relieve himself of every piece of clothing currently covering his marvelous body.

 

\-------------------

 

“Lay still,” Louis commands as he pulls his shirt over his head and throws it somewhere off to the side, not knowing or caring where it lands.

Harry is writhing below him on the bed, the soft pink petals and feathers now becoming crushed beneath him, the velvet sheets looking as though they have seen better days, and the best part is, Louis hasn’t even touched him yet. It’s a power trip, a head rush, knowing that he can affect Harry like this without so much as laying a finger on him. All it takes is a well placed gaze, the lowering of his voice and a handful of words and Harry is like putty. His to mould as he pleases. There is nothing sexier in Louis’ opinion. This is how he knows that they were always meant to be. Two halves of the same whole. It has been this way since the very first time they ever made love, and it never ceases to amaze Louis just how intune they are with each other or turn him on to the point of it being painful.

“Louis...please.” Harry is already at the point of begging, and Louis has to stop himself from just tearing all of their clothes off and putting Harry out of his misery.

“Shh, baby. Soon. I promise.” He doesn’t know where he finds the resolve to remain calm and seemingly unaffected by Harry’s words, but he does. This only serves to make Harry whimper more below him. Soft little sounds escaping his full kiss bitten lips as Louis continues to slowly relieve himself of his clothing. He wants to know how the fabric of Harry’s trousers feels against the bare skin of his dick, how the lace covering Harry’s nipples feels against his own, how the cool metal of his rings feels against the warm skin on his back. All of these thoughts combined with Harry’s soft noises, and the way he is splayed out beneath him has his dick harder than he thinks it has ever been, and it's going to be a bloody miracle if he can keep himself from coming before he even gets his clothes off.

"Fuck, Lou. Please. I need you." Harry is driving him wild with his words, and Louis know that he isn't doing it just to get a reaction out of him. He simply can't control them any more than Louis can stop come from beading at the head of his dick when he finally wiggles himself out of his tight boxer briefs.

When Louis is finally naked (which feels to him as though it has taken three life times not three minutes) he kneels on the edge of the bed between Harry's parted legs and proceeds to crawl his way up the length of his long, muscular body, before stopping when their chests and dicks are aligned. He's probably going to get his come on Harry's ridiculously expensive trousers, but right now he isn't worried about their dry cleaning bill. The thought alone of potentially ruining them has his dick throbbing again, and he needs to do what he set out to do before both of them are coming like overly excited teenagers.

"I was going to explain to you why everyone is calling you the King of Camp," Louis starts as he begins peppering Harry's jaw with tender kisses, gently playing with Harry's hard dick through the fabric of his trousers as he does so. "But it occurred to me that I don't really give a fuck with they think you're the King. All that matters is why I think you are, and that you believe that you are."

"Oh fuck, Lou…" Harry's voice sounds raw, for what reason Louis can't be entirely sure however it stirs something inside of him he hasn’t felt in a long time, and it serves to spur him on further.

"You are my King of Camp because you are unapologetically you." Louis kisses Harry's nose gently, followed by his plush lips and down the long column of his neck. He continues to nuzzle his way down Harry's lace covered chest, mouthing at his hard length as he passes before kneeling again at the end of the bed, with Harry panting below him.

"You are my King of Camp," he says as he lifts Harry's left leg at the knee, "because you were unafraid to wear heels higher than some people's standards." Louis gently removes the left heel, tossing it over his shoulder, before repeating the action with the right and removing both socks.

"You are my King of Camp," he repeats as he moves both hands up the long line of Harry's legs, stopping at his tiny waist that is accentuated by the high and tight cut of his trousers, "because you chose to wear wide leg trousers that show of your masculinity, whilst also showing off just how fucking unfairly tiny your waist is and not opting for a bloody ball gown." Louis slowly undoes the zipper on the side of Harry's trousers, careful not to get his shirt or skin caught, and then helps Harry to shimmy out of them. Louis gasps as Harry's bare cock springs free of them, and Harry's breath hitches in his throat, obviously at the sudden bareness. Louis momentarily can't think of anything other than the fact that Harry went to one of the most prestigious events on the social calendar without any underwear.

"Fuck, Harry…" Louis grips the base of his dick tightly as the knot deep in the pit of his stomach tightens. He isn't sure how he is going to stop himself from coming before Harry does at this point, so there is no time to dilly dally.

Louis removes his hand from his dick before laying back down between Harry's legs, their bare lengths now rubbing together with each small movement. The friction feels amazing, but it is doing nothing to stave off Louis' rapidly approaching orgasm, so he presses on.

"You are my King of Camp, because you wore a lace and sheer shirt, that accentuates every delectable muscle of your back, chest and arms. You painted your nails, but still wore chunky masculine jewelry. Even down to the scruff on your chin and your tattoos, the way they contrast with your delicate earring and the blush eyeshadow you are wearing. All of it adds up to camp, but most importantly, it all adds up to you. Do you see Harry? Do you see why they are calling you the King? Why you have always been and always will be my King?"

Harry suddenly sits up, capturing Louis' waist in his strong arms, his lips with his own, and it knocks the breath right out of him. It wasn't the reaction he was expecting, and it is somehow better than a simple 'yes' or 'I believe you'. Louis’ hands automatically find purchase in Harry's curls, and he kisses him back with all the fervor and passion he can muster, hoping that once and for all Harry believes him. He quickly pushes that thought to the back of his mind, they can argue about all that again later, right now all he wants more than anything is for his husband to make love to him.

"Please, Harry," Louis begs as Harry breaks their kiss for a breath, "please fuck me."

Harry holds Louis' naked form at arms length, his eyes scanning his face rapidly. Harry takes Louis' breath away. He wishes Harry could see himself through Louis' eyes right as he does at this moment. His short curls tousled, stray strands hanging down in his face. The way his shoulders seem broader, and his legs seem longer and more muscular thanks to the cut and fabric of his shirt. Louis is half expecting Harry to sprout fangs at a moment’s notice. He looks like a sexy, blood thirsty vampire, and Louis' dick throbs again painfully at the thought. If he encouraged Harry and Allesandro to use this specific material with this specific cut for that sole reason alone, no one ever has to know.

"Y- you want me to fuck _you_?"

"Yes, Harry. I do."

Louis understands why Harry is looking at him as if he has grown an extra head. This will be the first time, in their 10 year relationship that Louis has ever bottomed. He knows how much Harry loves to be fucked by him, and it's honestly never been a problem for them or something that they have discussed changing up. It works for them, in the best possible way, but right now Louis wants Harry to make love to him. He wants to feel Harry's hard length inside of him, not just his fingers for a change. He doesn't really know why, he just knows that he wants this. That he needs this.

"Are you sure, Lou?"

"Yes. Yes I'm sure, Harry. Please, make love to me."

Harry searches Louis' face for another few moments, no doubt trying to gauge if there's even a sliver of doubt in Louis' eyes. He doesn't find any and quickly resumes his punishing kisses from before, and Louis heaves a sigh of relief that he hopes Harry takes as a sigh of pleasure. He doesn't want to talk anymore tonight. He is done with talking. He just wants to feel.

Harry grips his waist again tightly, and Louis will no doubt be left with finger shaped bruises that will be the cause of his absent minded smiles for at least the next week. His firm grip and passionate kisses are gone as soon as they came though, and Louis is left feeling bereft and confused.

"What's wrong, love?"

"Nothing." Harry mumbles out the word, a hand coming up to run through his curls, and Louis knows there is something wrong. Harry has something on his mind, he just isn't sharing what that something is.

"Tell me."

"I- I just don't want to hurt you. You've never done this before. You aren't used to it like I am. The way that I am right now, I want…"

"You want what?"

"I want to devour you. I want to taste you, feel you, have you shouting my name like some kind of fucked up prayer. But I don't want to hurt you. Never you." Harry thumbs at Louis' cheek and pulls his bottom lip from between his teeth.

"You won't hurt me, H. If I don't like something, or it's too much for me, I'll tell you, and I know you will stop. I trust you with my life. If you want to do all of those things to me, H then do it. I want you to do it. I want to just… feel. Feel you. In me, over me, around me. All I want is you."

Louis swallows back the lump that has formed in his throat and wills the tears in his eyes not to spill over. He isn't upset, and he doesn't want Harry to think he is having second thoughts about this. He is just so overcome with emotion, at the feeling of being so loved by his one and only, that he can't help it. He is over crying, and he is over talking. He just needs for them to let their bodies say what words simply can't. To let out their feelings in ways that have to be felt to be conceived. That's all he really wants and needs right now.

"Please, H…" Louis tentatively kisses Harry, his tongue slowly and gently teasing at the seam where they come together, and before long Harry allows him entrance. Their kisses are slower this time, more careful. Louis doesn't want Harry to be slow or gentle. He wants Harry to make love to him how he wants to.

"Please…"

"Fuck it." Harry's voice is nothing more than a low growl, and that something that stirred inside of Louis before, raises its head again. He doesn't know how to describe it, or what it even is, all he knows is that it is all consuming. Raw, real, powerful, and he can’t get enough. Maybe this is what it feels like to have someone take over you mind and body. To trust someone so implicitly with yourself that you will let them do what they will to you, and trust that they won't ever put you in danger or harm you.

Louis decides trying to contemplate this conundrum right now is a giant waste of his time, so he clears his mind of everything that isn't Harry and the deep swirling feelings in his gut, and surrenders himself to them. It's a heady feeling, one he hasn't felt before. It is so different than being the one who has to do the thinking. All he has to do right now, however, is let his husband love him.

When Louis opens his eyes again, Harry's deep emerald ones are blazing holes straight through to his soul. His skin feels like millions of tiny fireworks are exploding simultaneously all over it and all Harry is doing is looking at him. With hunger, love and a fierce unbridled passion. He isn't sure how he is going to survive all of the things that Harry mentioned earlier, but he'll cross that bridge if and when he comes to it.

"Hands and knees baby," Harry instructs and Louis finds himself scrambling to do as he is asked as quickly as possible. He wants this experience to be a great one for both him and Harry, but instead he finds himself becoming tangled in the masses of velvet covered blankets and almost falls off the edge of the bed.

Louis lays flat on his stomach, trying to take deep breaths and calm himself when he is finally where he wants to be. He feels embarrassed, not unlike he did the first time he and Harry made love. Its seems like a lifetime ago now, but at the same time, only yesterday, and this feeling of embarrassment, like he isn't pleasing Harry, is all too familiar.

"Hey. Relax, love. There's no rush." Harry whispers the words against the skin of Louis' back, and as if on cue Louis' cheeks heat and goosebumps spread across his already sensitive skin.

"I'm sorry. I- I just want this to be good for you, H. Good for us."

"It will be. Just relax and enjoy it. Do you trust me?"

Louis lifts himself up onto his elbows and looks back over his shoulder at Harry. "Of course I do."

"Good. Then hands and knees."

Louis blushes, this time under the weight of Harry's words. This type of thing always sounded so natural coming from him, but now, being on the receiving end he realises why Harry is always a writhing, squirming mess below him, and why even his words have him in a tizzy. They sound dirty, yet erotic, and Louis' head is spinning with it.

Louis doesn't know what to expect, but Harry seems to start slow in the grand scheme of things, kneading the plump flesh of his behind, the cool metal of his rings contrasting with the heat of his skin. He presses kisses to the tops of his thighs where they meet his ass, and Louis swears he can feel his warm breath ghosting over his hole every time he does. He feels wanton, like his mother knows exactly what they are doing at this very moment, and he shivers with it.

Soon Harry’s kisses get closer to the inside of Louis’ thighs, up the crease of his ass, over his hole and up his spine to just below his ear. Louis gasps at the sensations he is experiencing, all of this foreign to him. He knows what it’s like to do it, not what it’s like to experience it, and he has no words to describe how amazing it feels. How amazing Harry is making him feel.

“I want to taste you.”

Louis isn’t sure he heard the words at first, surely he is making them up. They are simply a by product of his overworked and horny imagination. Surely.

“Wh- what?”

“I want to taste you, Lou. Can I taste you?” Louis doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he goes with the first response in the affirmative that springs to mind.

“Fuck, Harry. Fuck, yes.”

Harry doesn’t have to be told twice. He leans over Louis, the soft fabric and lace of his shirt brushing against Louis’ ass and back as he grabs a pillow from above Louis’ head and positions it under his chest.

“Lay on this. Keep that ass up, baby.” Louis groans, the sound high, whiny and foreign even to him, but he does as he is asked.

When Louis is in position, Harry uses his arm to spread his legs further apart so that now his entrance is exposed without effort. He feels more naked now than he was a second ago. He knows that sounds stupid, but he does. It’s one thing to be naked. It's another to feel exposed, and surprisingly the thought is turning him on. He wants so badly to reach down between his parted legs and touch his neglected dick, but he can’t. From this position, his arms are pinned beneath the pillow under his head and chest, and it is then he realises that Harry would have known that, and has inadvertently prevented him from getting the friction he so desperately craves.

Harry goes back to kneading Louis’ ass. His grip is firm, yet gentle. He somehow knows what Louis likes, and Louis’ dick throbs at the thought, more pre come spurting from the tip. How does he know what Louis likes? Louis doesn’t even know what he likes. This is the first time they have ever done this. That he has ever done this. This is all so foreign to him. So how can Harry possibly know? Is he simply doing to Louis what he knows he likes? Or can he somehow just tell? All of these questions are swirling in Louis’ mind, again more thinking, so he isn’t prepared for Harry to lick a fat strip from the base of his balls all the way up over his hole.

Louis cries out in surprise, his back arching up off of the bed involuntarily. “Fuck, Harry.”

“I know, baby. I know. Just relax.”

Louis tries to slow his breathing as Harry rubs soothing circles into his back. He doesn’t realise it, but he resumes his earlier position under Harry’s gentle touch, and again Harry licks a fat strip over his hole. He is more prepared for it this time, but it still makes his body arch and his head spin. He’d give his left leg to be able to touch his dick right now. To give himself something. His dick has been hanging neglected for God knows how long, and Louis is almost at the point that he is going to beg to be touched if Harry doesn’t do it on his own in the very near future.

Soon the licks become gentle kisses, directly over his entrance, Louis’ body gripping onto nothing as if it knows what is coming. Logically he knows, but a few fingers is a far cry from a dick. And not just any dick, Harry’s dick. His body clenches again at the thought and at Harry’s hands gripping firmly onto his ass as he parts his cheeks slightly to give himself better access, alternating between licks and kisses, teasing the tip of his tongue into Louis’ hole every so often, working him up slowly to what he really wants and needs.

Soon the tip of one of Harry’s fingers replaces the tip of his tongue, and Louis’ breathing is now shallow and choppy. All he is doing is lying with his ass in the air, and yet he feels like he has run a marathon under Harry’s constant ministrations. He is trying to pinpoint all of the sensations he is experiencing, trying to figure out which of them he likes best, but just when he thinks he has finally figured it out Harry adds a new one into the mix and he is back to square one.

“Do we have lube, love?” Louis hears Harry whisper absentmindedly, and Louis has to force himself to concentrate on what Harry is asking him. Do they have lube? Did he pack any? What drawer did he put it in? He doesn’t bloody know, but he hopes whatever answer his brain comes up with is the right one.

“Umm-- oh fuck, Harry. Umm-- I think-- fuck-- I think it’s in the-- in the top drawer. M-my top drawer. Fuck…”

Louis feels rather than hears Harry chuckle, right against his entrance and tingles shoot straight down his spine and into his balls at the sensation. Fuck. He isn't going to survive this. How does Harry do this? He didn’t realise how much strength it took to do seemingly so little. He will, if nothing else, have a new found respect for Harry by the end of today. Harry is so strong. He really has no idea how much Louis idolises him. How much Louis wants to be like him.

“Stay right there, love. You are doing amazing.” Harry kisses him once on the hip, before he moves from his place between Louis’ legs to retrieve the lube that Louis prays is where he says it is. Moments later Harry returns, once more resuming his place between Louis’ parted legs, this time kneeling up between them, his chest aligned with Louis’ back. Louis is confused by the change in position until Harry grips his dick firmly and begins tugging it in a steady rhythm.

“Oh fuck. Fuck, yes. Just like that, baby. Need this. Fuck!” Louis doesn’t know where the words came from, or why he felt like he needed to say them, only that he had to. He couldn’t have stopped them even if he tried. His body seemingly no longer his to control, only responding to Harry’s words and touch.

“I know, Lou. I know. It will help, I promise. I promise I won’t hurt you, my love. Are you ready to do this?”

“Yes! Fuck yes, H. Need you. Please…” Louis knows down to the fibre of his very being that what Harry is saying is true, that this will help, that he won’t hurt him. He also knows that he needs this more than he has ever needed anything in his life.

“Okay, baby. Nice and slow okay? If it’s too much you have to tell me. Promise me?”

“I promise, Harry. Please, just make love to me.” Louis does promise. He isn’t stupid enough to let it become painful for bragging rights. This isn't what this is. This is his husband making love to him for the very first time. He’d rather it took all day, and it was the most amazing experience of his life, than rush into it and it end up a living nightmare.

Louis hears the cap to the lube open as Harry continues his rhythmic tugging, using Louis’ pre come to help ease the glide. Before long, Louis feels Harry’s other hand moving between their bodies and soon there is a slick finger tracing his entrance, readying him for what he hopes is the most magical experience of his life.

"Okay, Lou. Just the tip, okay? Nice and slow."

"Just do it, H. I don't need a running commentary." Louis rolls his eyes and hopes that Harry can't see him from his current position.

"I know you don't _need_ it. I just want you to know what I'm going to do, love. So that if you don't feel like you are ready you can tell me beforehand." Louis supposes this makes sense, and he concedes with a sigh.

"I know. I'm sorry. Just...please. I need you. Want to feel you."

"You will, love. You will." Harry doesn't say any more after this, he merely kisses Louis once on his lower back and returns to tracing slow rings around his entrance, dipping the tip in every second or third lazy circle, whilst stroking Louis' hard length like a man who has all the time in the world.

Louis for his part, tries his best to get into a comfortable position and keep his breathing even. Tries to quiet his mind and allow the sensations to take control. He feels like Harry has been edging him for a month when finally the tip of one of his long, strong fingers enters his body. Louis groans at the feeling, his entire body consumed by it. Harry pauses for a few seconds, allowing Louis time to adjust to the new sensation, before he starts slowly moving his finger in and out, in time to the rhythm of his other hand. Now Louis realises why he was going so slowly. His mind doesn't know which sensation to focus on, both of them as amazing as the other and before long all Louis can do is mumble out strings of incoherent words and surrender to his body.

"Fuck, H. Feels so good," Louis mumbles into the pillow when the sensation of having Harry's finger inside of him is something pleasure inducing rather than a foreign feeling his brain can't comprehend.

"Are you ready for more?"

"Yes! Need more."

Harry removes his finger from Louis' body to apply more lube, and Louis whimpers at the sudden loss. Now he understands. Now he understands Harry's every moan, every whimper, every plea when they make love. It's like a vital part of him is now missing. Soon however Harry's finger has returns, only this time, he slowly inches the entire length of it into Louis' waiting heat until Louis can feel what he thinks is Harry's 'Peace' ring skimming the delicate skin of his entrance.

Harry holds his position again for a few moments, allowing Louis' brain time to adjust, because his body is already willing. It's his brain that needs time to process the onslaught of sensations. Everything Harry is doing to him feels like the most amazing thing Louis has ever experienced.

"Move, H," Louis finds himself saying, and he hears Harry chuckle quietly from behind him, before he lays kisses down the length of his spine, his finger moving in tandem with the hand that is still firmly wrapped around his leaking dick.

Before long Harry is moving two of his thick fingers inside of Louis, alternating between curling them and scissoring them, driving Louis wild. Louis has been panting the words 'oh fuck' for what feels like hours however it's probably only been a handful of minutes. Harry, as promised, is taking it slow, allowing him time to adjust and preparing him for what is to come next. Louis just feels so overwhelmed by it all, but also completely loved.

"Ready for another, baby?" To be fair, Harry is really going at Louis' pace, not at his own. He is letting Louis dictate how fast, how slow, how many, and he can't even begin to put into words the love he has for his husband right now.

"Y- yes. Ready." Is all Louis manages, having given up on trying to form full sentences one and a half fingers ago.

"Okay, baby. Nice and slow."

Again Harry removes his fingers, and Louis' body impulsively clenches this time around nothing. It feels strange to not have Harry's fingers inside of him now. Quickly they return, Harry adding the tip of the third finger at first, before he slowly and steadily works Louis up to three whole fingers.

"Fuck!" Louis cries out when three of Harry's fingers are buried to the ring in his tight heat. This time he feels the stretch and burn more than he has before, and it is bordering on uncomfortable. Harry's hand stills, and Louis just whimpers in response.

"You okay?" Harry's voice is laced with concern, and he begins to slowly remove his fingers.

"No. Don't. I'm fine. Just need a second," Louis assures him, his words choppy thanks to his laboured breathing.

"Why don't you ride my fingers?"

"What?" Louis is having trouble keeping up a steady conversation with three of Harry's fingers in his ass.

"Ride my fingers. I know this can be a lot, love. That way you can set the pace. You know what is too much or not enough, instead of me guessing."

"Oh, okay. Yeah. Okay." Louis doesn't know if this is the best idea, but he trusts Harry and he trusts that he wouldn't do anything that could potentially hurt him, so he slowly starts moving himself on Harry's fingers.

It still feels like Harry is going to split him in two initially, but it’s not uncomfortable anymore. Just odd, and Louis finds himself wanting more. Wanting to be stretched open by Harry’s thick fingers. Wanting to feel the cool surface of his rings at they graze his sensitive hole. He wants it all. Louis picks up his rhythm, and so does Harry's hand. When Louis is able to use Harry's fingers to pound into him, his rings slamming into his flesh, Louis releases a loud moan, the digits hitting his spot over and over again, sending waves of pleasure through his system. He can _feel_ Harry spread and scissor them inside of him. Louis pushes himself up onto his hands then, so that he can look back over his shoulder, only to see Harry's painted nails disappearing inside of him.

"Oh fuck! Fuck Harry, yes! Oh fuck!" Louis cries out unable to control the words springing from his mouth. He now has a thin sheen of sweat covering his body, his breathing is laboured and he feels like he is going to explode at a moment’s notice. His balls feel high and tight, and now that Harry's hand is matching pace with him, he knows it won't be long until he comes, his orgasm rapidly approaching, the feeling deep in this gut intensifying with each passing moment.

"Can I fuck you, Lou? Wanna be inside you. Wanna feel you," Harry whispers into Louis' ear, and he almost comes from his words alone. Harry’s voice is deep and gravely from his own arousal. Louis has heard Harry turned on more times than he can count, but he has never heard him sound like this. Possessive. Animalistic. Almost as if he wants to claim Louis. A shiver travels from Louis’ neck all the way down to the base of his spine, like a beacon pointing to the location that Harry is entering him. Fuck.

"God, yes! Yes, H. Yes!"

"God has nothing to do with this, baby," Harry growls out, before he kisses his way down Louis' spine and slowly removes both his hand and his fingers. Louis finds that he likes this side of Harry. The younger man has always been cocky in some ways, but in bed it tended to be a more sexual seductress type of confidence. Riding Louis exactly how he likes it, or deep throating his dick until it is all Harry could consume. This is different. Harry has always had a jealous streak, but this feels like possession, and Louis wants more.

"Shit..." Louis hisses, his body clenching around air now. He misses the feeling of having Harry inside of him as soon as it is gone.

"Sit up, Lou, let me lay down," Harry says then, and Louis is confused however does as he is asked.

When Harry has himself in position, his head and back propped up with pillows, his tousled sweaty curls framing his face, his body slick with sweat and his shirt clinging to the contours of his chest and arms, he motions for Louis to straddle him. Louis can't and won't move. Too busy blatantly ogling the vision of Gucci perfection that is his husband. Louis cant help but lean forward and undo the pussy bow at Harry's neck, exposing Harry's broad tattooed chest.

Harry chuckles at him, and Louis' favourite shy lopsided grin spreads over his face. It is stark contrast to the man who was saying filthy words about God and fucking Louis with his fingers. How Harry manages to be both soft and strong at the same time will never fail to amaze Louis. He will never quite understand how Harry is able to balance on the thin line of femininity and masculinity as if he were walking on the street. Louis snaps out of his thoughts when Harry says, "Come here, baby."

Louis manages to get his body to cooperate this time, and crawls up the bed and positions himself over Harry. He can feel the tip of his hard length nudging at his entrance as he settles himself, and his body shivers in anticipation. Harry sits up then and wraps his arms around Louis' curvy waist, bringing their lips together in a gentle kiss.

"Are you ready?" Harry whispers, nuzzling the scruff at Louis' jaw before kissing him again.

"Wait. You don't-- you don't want me to…" Louis' sentence trails off, but Harry nods his head as he continues to place soft kisses down Louis neck and across the script tattooed on his collar bones. He knows this is what everything has been leading up to. He was practically begging for it just moments ago, but now he suddenly feels unsure. Not unsure of Harry, but if he will be good enough for him. If he can even do this. Harry makes him feel so good when he bottoms, and Louis is so fucking scared that he won’t be able to do the same. That he won’t live up to Harry’s expectations of this.

"Yes. I do."

"But, H. I--" Louis doesn't have a chance to continue his protest as he is swiftly cut off by Harry's lips on his again.

"Shh. You can. Just like my fingers, baby. You are in control here. I don't care if you only manage the tip, or if you can't do it at all. I doesn't matter. All that matters to me is that you are happy and that you enjoy it. I love you." Harry’s right. It’s not that much different than his fingers, and they both seemed to be enjoying that. Louis sighs when Harry resumes his lazy kisses, his head falling backwards as Harry's soft lips blaze a trail down the middle of his chest, his ringed hands moving across the expanse of his back.

"Fuck. I love you too. Okay. Yeah. Okay."

"You sure?"

"Yes, H. I want to. I trust you."

Louis feels Harry smile into his chest, and his grip tightens for a moment on his back before he releases him and fumbles about in the bed sheets beside him. Moments later Louis hears the cap on the lube being opened and soon Harry is applying it to his hard, leaking length. Louis watches mesmerised as Harry's ring clad fingers move over his length, the delicate polish on his nails painting a picture Louis can't take his eyes off of.

When Harry is in position, the slick head of his dick nudging enticingly at Louis' entrance, Louis takes a deep breath and begins to slowly lower himself down. When the tip is past his tight ring of muscle, Harry moves his hands to his hips, holding him steady, grounding him.

"Fuck.." Harry breathes out, and Louis agrees wholeheartedly. This feels amazing. So much more, well, _everything_ than Harry's fingers. So much thicker, fuller, everything. Louis finds himself wanting more, addicted, so Louis lowers himself further.

He takes his time as he eases himself down, inch by inch, feeling as though this is taking much longer than necessary, but Harry's words are echoing in his head from earlier, and he hasn't lied to him or hurt him yet. Louis hisses out a breath as the stretch and burn intensifies now. He feels like he is nearing the point of having Harry buried inside of him, and he knew it wouldn't all be plain sailing. He was expecting some element of pain or discomfort.

Without having to say anything, Harry takes Louis' dick in his hand and begins to steadily stroke him again. It provides enough pleasure and distraction that soon Louis is completely seated, and he groans out at the feeling of fullness. He honestly wasn't sure that Harry was going to fit (as stupid as that sounds), or that he was going to be able to get this far, but he does, he has, and it feels exhilarating.

His skin is on fire, bursts of pleasure and excitement shooting down his spine directly into his dick. He feels like he is alive for the very first time, and he just can't get enough of it. Harry has given this to him, his husband, the love of his life, his King, and he knows that no one else could have made him feel the way that Harry is making him feel right now. That he would never have willingly placed so much trust in anyone but Harry.

"Fuck, Harry. Just...fuck!" Louis cries, his mid length hair falling into his face, sweat droplets dripping from the ends to mingle with the sweat covering his body.

"Shit. I know, Lou. Fuck you feel amazing, love. You are incredible. Fuck I love you so much."

Louis looks at Harry, and for the first time since this all began, he realises that Harry's dick hasn't been touched once, save for when he was undressing him earlier, and this sudden onslaught of pleasure is probably driving him to the brink.

"Shit, H. Are you okay? Do you need me to move?" Louis quickly pants out. Having Harry inside of him is an all consuming feeling, but he isn't so self centered as to assume that Harry is fine and dandy right now. Just like him, this is a first for Harry too, and Louis suddenly feels a little guilty.

"I'm fine, love. So much better than fine."

"Are you sure? I was so busy worrying about me, I didn't stop to think about how all of this was affecting you. I'm sorry, H."

"Don't be sorry. You've done nothing to be sorry for. And I only want you to move if you feel you're ready. Stop worrying about me, and just do what comes naturally, okay?" Louis nods his agreement, unsure if he can trust his voice right now. "Good. Now kiss me, you fool."

Louis can't help the silly grin that appears on his face at Harry's words, and he knows Harry meant it relax him. They are words that were spoken so long ago, but from a time when they were young (well younger) and love drunk, not that they still aren't. It makes Louis' heart soar to know that the moments he holds so dearly, mean just as much to Harry as they still do to him.

As Louis leans in to kiss his husband, Harry sits upright, and Louis groans out his name, a primal guttural sound he didn't even know he could make. His dick twitches violently, and the knot in the pit of his stomach tightens. As their lips come together fiercely, Louis' body begins to move.

It's tentative and slow at first, Harry still stroking his length in time with his thrusts, their teeth clacking together as they devour each other from both inside and out. It isn't until Harry cries out in pleasure, a deep seeded moan being torn from Louis throat in response, that he realises the noise he couldn't place is his plump ass slapping against Harry's muscular thighs.

"Fuck, Lou. Fuck yes. Shit you are so fucking incredible."

Louis doesn't reply to Harry's cries, he simply uses it as motivation to keep going, knowing that whatever he is doing is clearly having the desired effect. He grips tighter to Harry's sheer shirt, the lace at his chest rubbing enticingly over his nipples as Harry's cool rings send shockwaves coursing through his body where they are making contact with the exposed skin of his dick and back.

All that he can hear are strings of expletives and praise from Harry, his heart pounding in his chest and the rhythmic slapping of his ass against Harry's thighs. His skin feels like it's been set alight, each jarring thrust renewing it with fervour, burts of ecstasy are coursing through his veins at lightning speed that seem to be connected directly to where Harry's hand is stroking his dick, and his lungs are burning from the effort to get enough air into them.

"Harry! Fuck, Harry I'm so close, baby. Gonna come!" Louis cries out, and Harry begins using his legs to pound into him, matching him thrust for thrust.

A high whining sound, not that far from a scream of pure pleasure is torn from Louis' body as their pace intensifies, and he could have sworn he heard the delicate fabric covering Harry's sinful back tear. Right now, however, he couldn't give two shits about Harry's one of a kind Gucci shirt, all he cares about is that both of them come before he explodes or passes out.

"Harry, fuck. Need to come, shit!"

"Come with me, darling," Harry growls out, and before Louis can even process what is happening, he is coming hard and fast, rope after rope of come covering Harry's lace clad chest and stomach as well as his own. Harry releases with a garbled shout not a mere moment later and there is no way they are ever going to be able to get the come stains out of the Gucci.

 

\------------------------

 

"I'm sorry I ruined your shirt, H," Louis whispers against Harry's chest as they lay snuggled up in bed.

"It's only a shirt, Lou," Harry says through a laugh. "I'm sure Ally can whip me up another one." Harry runs his fingers absentmindedly through Louis' freshly washed hair, inhaling the scent of vanilla coming from it, and sighing heavily.

"What was that sigh for?" Louis asks, and Harry tries not to act suspicious. He's been trying to figure out a way to apologise to Louis for the better part of an hour for his earlier antics, and he still can't find the words. "H?" Louis prompts again, and when Harry doesn’t answer, he knows he hasn't gotten out of explaining himself.

"I- I owe you an apology…" Harry starts, feeling like he is 16 again after their very first fight. His heart is pounding, and he knows Louis can feel it from his place laying on his chest however he can't calm himself.

"An apology for what, love?" Louis looks up at him then, his endless saphire eyes full of love and concern. Maybe even a hint of confusion.

"For how I behaved earlier. For breaking my crown after you spent hours buying it, not to mention who knows how much money, and for making you cry. But most of all I owe you an apology for making you feel like I didn’t believe you. I didn’t at first, Lou. I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t. I thought it was all just some ploy to make me feel better, because I know you can’t stand to see me upset, and you always want me to be happy. I’m so sorry that I made you feel that way, that I thought so little of you." Louis looks at Harry dumbfounded for a moment, before he looks away and begins to trace small circles in Harry’s chest hair. It sends shivers down Harry’s spine, but he ignores that for now. In this moment, they need to talk about this, resolve their differences and move on.

"You don't have to apologise for any of that, love. It's all been forgotten,” Louis says, but Harry can sense the hint of sadness in Louis’ voice, even if he didn’t mean for it to be there. Everytime they have had an argument about this particular subject in the past, it has ‘all been forgotten’, and Harry thinks that is part of the problem. Nothing is ever resolved from the for ‘forgive and forget’ method, and Harry knows it is because Louis loves him too much to push. Harry needs to push himself, though because he doesn’t want last night to repeat itself the next time Harry is feeling insecure. They are repeating the same things over and over again and expecting a different result, but it stops now. It starts with an apology

"No. It's not. It’s not okay, and it shouldn’t be all forgotten, Lou. I should be apologizing to you at the very least. Expect lots of presents in your near future by the way. I feel horrible for the way that I acted, and here you are forgiving me like I broke your coffee cup or something.”

“You don’t have to buy--” Louis starts, but Harry is quick to interject.

“Please, Lou. Please let me apologise to you, and to explain myself. Please?” Harry feels Louis sigh against his chest, then the brush of his hair on his skin as he nods, so he continues before he loses his nerve. He takes long enough to think of what to say and how to express himself during a normal conversation, never mind one as important as this.

“I acted like a brat, Lou and of course you were right. I let the words of an insignificant few get to me, to the point I didn't even believe my own husband. It's stupid. They don’t know me; they don’t know how much effort we went too with Harry and Ally to put those outfits together. They don’t know how many sleepless nights we spent, or how much it took for me to wear heels and make up. Hell, I even pierced my own ear! I went to lengths to put that outfit together, sure in the knowledge that I had done Camp proud, and all it took to undo all of that were a few negative comments from a few unhappy people. I know I do it all the time, and I shouldn't. You’d think after almost 10 years in the spotlight, always under scrutiny, I’d have learnt to deal with it by now, but I haven’t.

“I'm so lucky to have you, Lou. I am so incredibly proud to call you my husband and my best friend, and I am so sorry that I didn’t take the time to think about this rationally and to listen to what you had to say. If anything, I should be thanking my lucky stars you didn't ask for a divorce years ago." Louis scoffs at this, but Harry barrels on undeterred. “I’m serious, Louis. You have been putting up with my, how did you put it? Over dramatic ass was it?” This earns a cheeky chuckle from Louis, and Harry can’t help but smile with him. He’s right though. He always is.

“As I was saying, you’ve been putting up with my dramatic ass since we were teenagers, Lou. We are grown fucking adults, and I still let it get to me. I was so scared, when my crown fell, and you started yelling about my life crashing down around me, that you meant I’d lose you, too. I never want to lose you. But again, you’re right. If I keep letting people get to me it’s going to eventually affect my life and career and it will be my own fault for letting them. I don’t know what else I can say other than I’m sorry, and I expect a list of ways I can make it up to you in the morning. I don’t care what it says. I’ll not eat avocados for a month. I’ll buy you Manchester United. I don’t care, love. Get it on the list.” At that, Louis sits bolt upright beside Harry and proceeds to laugh hysterically while all Harry can do is lie there and look at him dumbfounded. “What!? What’s so funny? I’m trying to be serious here!”

“I know, I know. I’m-- I’m sorry…” Louis continues to laugh, tears now rolling down his face and he clutches his stomach. Harry, however, finds it a touch rude that he was trying to be sincere and pour out his heart to his husband and he gets laughed at in return.

“Mhmm.”

“Honestly, Harry. You wouldn’t last 5 bloody mintues without those stupid avocados.”

“Seriously! Is that why you are laughing at me like an idiot right now?” Harry says in disbelief and playfully swats Louis on the arm. He married an idiot. A hot idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.

“Seriously though, thank you. Thank you for apologising. Thank you for acknowledging that yes, sometimes you can be a complete tosser. Thank you for noticing that yes, I am always right, but most importantly for offering to buy me Manchester United. I know you love me H, and you're made of money, but even you are too broke for that.” It’s Harry’s turn to laugh now. He can’t keep a straight face when Louis is back to being playful and not trying to gouge out his eyeballs in frustration.

“Am I forgiven?” Harry asks when he has managed to regain control of his breathing.

“Yes, H. You are forgiven.”

“And you aren’t going to divorce me?”

“No you idiot, I’m not going to bloody divorce you. Where you got that notion from, I’ll never know. You may be a giant pain in my arse sometimes, but I don’t want a divorce. Please, next time you start doubting yourself, remember everything I’ve said to you tonight and in the past. I don’t need extravagant gifts or even a fucking footie team, but prove to me that you believe me. That this won’t continue to be an argument between us. I understand, better than anyone, that sometimes your insecurities can get the best of you, but please stop allowing it everytime.”

“Okay. I will try. You’re right. I can’t let this keep getting to me. I do need to remember all the ways that I am special to you.”Harry leans up and kisses Louis on the nose then, and on cue, Louis scrunches it in that way that Harry simply adores. He looks like a grumpy little kitten, and Harry is smitten with him, although he’d never tell Louis that, or he really would divorce him. They both lay back down together in the comfort of the plush hotel bed, surrounded by admittedly rather crushed and rumpled looking velvet sheets, the pink feathers strewn about, sticky from sweat and lube. Harry, though,  feels more content now than he has in weeks. Getting ready for the met Gala was stressful, and both of them have been on edge. He doesn’t like to lay blame, but if he was a betting man, he’d bed that the stress of the last few months played a large part in their argument amongst other things.

“Would you like me to get your crown fixed?” Louis asks before he lets out a loud undignified yawn that he quickly tries to cover with his hand.

“No, Lou. I don’t. I don’t need a crown to feel like a King. All I need is you. Right here beside me.” He knows Louis recognises his own lyrics, but chooses not to say anything.

“You know there is no place that I would rather be, H. Can I ask one more thing before I fall asleep?”

“Of course you can.”

“Do you believe me now?” Harry is taken aback by Louis’ question, but he supposes it is warranted given the conversation they just had and the morning they just shared.

“Yes, Lou. I do. I think somewhere deep down I did when you tried to tell me earlier, I just didn’t want to let myself believe it.”

“Well in that case,” Louis whispers as his eyes fluttering shut, and he snuggles into Harry’s side, “Long may he reign.”

 

Fin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
